heaven help the fool that falls in love
by kathleenfergie
Summary: At the end of the day, you suppose you don't hate her. It's on your tongue often, but the words lose their truth each week that passes and she is next to you, ridiculous flaming red jacket and clumsy personality too loud to ignore. (au fluff)


_WITNESS ME_

 _this is so gay and i'm so proud of it and it's weird and i am too flourishy a writer but i don't give a shit i have too many swan queen feels rn to keep this inside of me for much longer_

 _set ambiguously around the end of s4. mentions robin and killian but this really is about my babies! assumed regina's kitchen is designed differently idc. regina is so fuckin gay it hurts me and that's how i wrote her. i always feel like i write her ooc but i think this is my best version of her yet so Whatever_

 _i'm literally dead tired and my fingers keep getting away from me so if there's typos just fuckin kill me alright? cool_

 _hope you give it a read and enjoy! i listened to the lumineers' cleopatra album on repeat while writing this. don't own shit._

* * *

At the end of the day, you suppose you don't _hate_ her.

It's on your tongue often, but the words lose their truth each week that passes and she is next to you, ridiculous flaming red jacket and clumsy personality too loud to ignore.

You have held her hands in yours so many times in order to teach her spells and pretend, for her pride, that you do not notice how violently they shake. One of the many things you notice about Emma Swan that others tend to overlook is how she suffers.

She isn't one to sit at the window seat and stare longingly into the sun, as is her mother's way of coping, or to smother and attempt shitty, too late parenting like David.

Emma is like you, two sides of a burning hot coin. It is a wonder that your son became the peaceful, loving boy that he is, with two firecracker mothers playing tug-o-war with him these past years. That seems to be reaching its end, thankfully, and rather than fight to be the dominant parent, you allow Emma to ebb her way into your home. Several of her socks have been put through your laundry, plucked from couch cushions or peeled off of Henry's static covered clothes. Storybrooke's hero can hold her own against a number of monsters yet can never remember fabric softener.

The Saviour, as she hates being called, drifts between many residences: the loft, your mansion, Granny's, or whatever bed she finds herself in, with whoever happens to be next to her. You assume it is her way of running away and rebelling on a small scale. Emma knows she can't leave Storybrooke, but she'll be damned if she is confined to one roof.

Some evenings she comes to your door, clad in a tank top and thin sweatpants, gasping for air as her hands spark and crackle like a campfire. You remember those early days with Rumple, when nightmares left you the same way.

One of those nights you usher her in, sweeping your gaze across her crumpled form and shaking body. Despite the magic cooking under her skin, she looks more human than ever, bold glasses slipping down her nose and endless locks swept up into a sleep-tousled bun. You deposit her on your too white couch before grabbing a bottle from the 'expensive as fuck' (Emma's words) section of your wine cellar. You summon a throw from the upstairs cupboard and fold it over the blonde, settling into the stiff couch and pouring dark wine into plastic cups.

She has broken one too many wine glasses.

"Give me your hands," you say quietly, reaching out for them.

They are uncharacteristically hot, as Emma's fingertips usually resemble Elsa's ice, and you have to whisper several ancient words into them to get her veins to stop boiling. She takes them back tentatively, gulping down a third of her beverage. You resist the urge to tsk at her; wine like this is meant to be enjoyed, not chugged like beer at a frat party.

She doesn't say anything, she usually doesn't, just stews in her anger and fear until you decide to retire back to your bedroom. You leave her on the couch, green eyes boring a hole through one windowpane. You don't know what lies beyond the confines of your house and don't bother asking.

In the morning, Henry pops his head in the door of your room, large nose entering before his tentative smile.

"Ma has been staring at the blender," he informs you. "Do you think she knows how to summon her tools of destruction from home or will she make do with the kitchen knives?"

You groan, burying your face into a pillow.

"I'll be down in a minute, honey," you mumble from the fabric, sighing. Henry chuckles, leaving you to no doubt act as the kitchen's knight in shining armour.

Eventually, you make your way down to find Emma with her hands braced on the marble tabletop, eyes focused on her phone. Henry takes his usual seat as he furiously spoons cheerios into his mouth and you make your way past his mother, glancing down at the screen to find a plethora of messages from Snow White.

She looks at you, both exasperated and vulnerable, and you can't help but give her a small smile despite your sour morning mood. At the very least, she has not assaulted one of your appliances and that is all you can ask of her these days. She is not completely fragile, but her parents cause a familiar feeling in the both of you.

"We'll take Henry to school and then go to Granny's," you tell her. "I'm out of cinnamon."

You watch her fight a grin, but eventually the corners of her mouth tug upwards and she beams at you, the tension in her body dissipating for that brief moment. Turning away to make sure Henry has all his school books, you wonder what Snow could have done to make her daughter flee.

It was obvious to anyone with a brain that David and Snow loved their daughter unconditionally, but the two bambi-eyed, lovesick fools had otherworldly ideals that rarely aligned with Emma's. Snow confides in you far too much for your liking, so you can usually fill in the gaps of the Charmings internal affairs without having to discuss it with Emma.

Henry rolls his eyes at you as you round up all the abandoned pencils at the bottom of his bag and stick them into their respective pouch. You wrinkle your nose at him and he laughs, the sound soothing. After everything, Henry will always be your light, and you can sense that he is becoming Emma's as well. She favours the manor these days and you appreciate the closeness that forms between mother and son. You suppose it should seem threatening, but you shrug the Evil Queen's thoughts off and watch Emma as she tucks her phone away and challenges Henry in a race to the front door.

You are left in the kitchen with his bag and uniform jacket, but the laughter filtering from your front hall evens out your momentary frustration. It would be a miracle if your house survived Emma Swan's inelegance.

Later, after Henry has been dropped off and you've forced a coat on Emma's shoulders, you both sit in your car outside Granny's, silently sipping at your respective drinks.

"I was looking at your photo albums last night," Emma starts, frowning into her cup. "I didn't put them back in order, I couldn't remember."

"They're marked chronologically, Miss Swan," you say, in a way that is both chastising and friendly, raising an eyebrow toward the blonde. She smirks in response but says nothing. "I trust no wine was spilled on any of my pictures?"

"No," she laughs, mostly to herself.

There's an atmosphere forming, one you can recognize as Emma attempting to say something personal but failing to find the courage. The air is thick and heavy and she turns her head toward you, giving you a hard look, her glasses slipping. Emma's deep green eyes are angry behind the thick frames, but full of unshed tears.

"She wanted me to tell her about foster care. About Neal, jail, Henry, all of it." Emma's voice broke as she mentioned her pregnancy. You reach over and take the paper cup from her fist, the image of hot cocoa all over your interior flashing briefly through your mind.

"I assume you didn't get very far into that conversation," you say, testing the waters.

"They just don't understand," she explains plainly. "They have no fucking idea what I went through, and just telling her all of it isn't going to magically make all the pain go away."

"No, it won't, but it might help you to heal, Emma." She scoffs at the idea, pushing blonde strands away from her face in an attempt to create a wall between the two of you. You reach out again and touch her arm softly, and thank the gods that she doesn't flinch away from you. "Even if it isn't your parents, you should tell someone."

"Archie?" Emma laughs and reclaims her beverage, turning her gaze away from you and out the window of your Mercedes. You can tell she's on the verge of crying, but it's unlikely that she'd actually cry openly in front of you. "It's just so hard these days for me to separate Mary Margaret from Snow. She desperately wants to be the mother she never was while still retaining the relationship we had during the curse, but my best friend doesn't _exist_ anymore now that she's Snow again."

You're silent for a long time, looking at the Saviour as you find words for her. Comfort was never something you were good at with anyone but Henry, but you feel that same softness in your heart toward Emma that you do your son.

"Tell me," you offer quietly.

She almost doesn't believe those two words, gaze snapping to you, startled. "What?"

"Tell _me_ , Emma."

She does.

* * *

Storybrooke's cycle of brief safety followed by months of unrest continues as you teach Emma all that you can. She is a quick learner but does not hold the knowledge of magic that you do, and the two of you spend hours out in the woods where she attempts control.

Despite the deep winter chill, Emma's shed her coat and sweat beads down her forehead as she practices.

"You're holding your hands wrong," you tell her. Energy bursts from her palm and sets fire to a set of trees that you extinguish with a quick snap. The smell of burnt wood fills the space between you two and Emma clenches her fists.

"Goddamnit," she curses under her breath and sits in a patch of snow, melting handfuls of it onto her skin. "Did Rumple let you fail this often?"

"You're not failing, for god's sake," you huff, stuffing both hands into your coat and plopping down beside her. "You may have been born from magic, Emma, but you grew up in a land that suffocated it for hundreds of years. The Enchanted Forest and realms beyond are filled with it, it's in the air and in our bodies, whether we like it or not.

"People on Earth rejected its magic and it is hard to find. It's not your fault that you don't have the same capabilities as I, or even Rumple, do." You look at her defeated face, blonde strands sticking to her forehead and cheeks as she pants out of both anger and exhaustion. "Plus, your magic is light, while mine is dark. I can only teach you so much."

"You have light too, Regina," she says stubbornly.

"Yes, I do, but it is nothing compared to what you have in one of your pinkies, Emma." She laughs half heartedly and lays back in the snow. "This is enough for today. I'm sure we have more to do concerning the lycans."

The Saviour groans and rolls over, burying her face in the snow and letting her frustration out before lifting her head back to you. "Can't Ruby seduce them or something?"

"Werewolves and lycans aren't the same thing, Emma," you laugh, summoning her coat. You push it toward the blonde and roll your eyes. "Though I have no doubt that _Ruby_ could seduce a wooden pole, I'm not so sure about her wolf counterpart."

Emma pushes off the ground and accepts her coat, brushing hair from her face and exhaling. "Can I try poofing us to Granny's?" She asks, a bright look in her eyes.

You look at her blankly, mouth opening to tell her _absolutely not_ , but the giddiness on her usually tired face is something you have become weak to. After a moment of contemplating your survival rate, you inhale sharply and nod, waving a hand at her to go ahead.

Emma concentrates for a long minute, eyes closed and palms up, before she twists her fingers and grey smoke sputters from them. It wafts between you, but your location doesn't change, light and snow filtering in through the trees. She frowns briefly and stares at her hands, nose crinkled.

"Here," you say, stepping closer and gripping her arm. "You'll be able to take some of my magic and it'll be easier."

It surprises her at first, but she goes back to concentrating.

Watching her, you count the pale freckles that sit across her nose, and smile to yourself when she wrinkles her brow. For a brief second, you long to reach one manicured finger out and press the creases from her face. Magic tires the Saviour and you wish that she could master it faster, if only for her body's sake.

Smoke appears again, this time engulfing the both of you, and in the space between things, you can feel Emma's energy. Not for the first time, your soul sings at the idea of light magic, wisps of your own darkness reaching out for it. It feels endless, but soon you are deposited back into Storybrooke, the roof of Granny's groaning as Emma lets go of your arm and lands unceremoniously on her ass.

She yelps but it is replaced by hearty laughter, the blonde looking up at you from the gravel with complete delight. Emma is luminous when she laughs like this, all pearly teeth and bright green eyes. Her cheeks are pink as she lets out an amused sigh, staring at you; you drown in her light and imagine kissing her.

"We lived," she points out, nodding her head.

"Yes, we did." You chuckle and your magic purples the air as you reappear in your foyer. Emma is on her feet but stumbles in surprise, squinting into the dark of your home. "I've got a pasta dish I've been meaning to try and Granny's lasagna leaves something to be desired, so I hope you don't mind if we skip that."

There is still a sliver of sunlight outside and it filters in through the windows, rainbow facets bouncing off Emma's blonde mane. Her once tight ponytail now sits limp over one shoulder, curled bangs and tendrils falling into her face. She shrugs and squints again. Looking at her pained expression, you lay a hand out, her glasses sitting in your palm. "You left these in the kitchen yesterday morning."

"Shit, I'd been wondering where those went," Emma smiled, thanking you before slipping them on her face. "Henry thinks they make me look like dork."

"You've always been a dork, Emma," you quip, smirking. She rolls her eyes and blushes, shedding her coat and setting it on the stand before making her way through the house.

" _Boots_ ," you scold and she flips you off, kicking them to the sides of your front hallway. You scoff when her bare feet hit the hardwood, because _of course_ Emma Swan doesn't wear socks, the twelve year old that she is.

Placing your coat and gloves in their proper homes, you sweep a hand through the air and clean up the woman's mess, sighing as you dispose of your heels.

Henry, thankfully, hadn't left his things in disarray before leaving to stay at his grandparent's. Snow's getting portraits done of him this weekend, for no reason other than to embarrass the fourteen year old and show to the princesses during her mommy and me escapades. He'd begged you to dissuade her but Henry had been through too many extreme events in the past few years that you think he deserves a "normal family" experience.

"Can we order pizza or are you going to force me to wait while you make one from scratch?" Emma questions as you enter the kitchen, swiping through pizza menus on her phone.

"I suppose your progress today permits you a prize," you yawn, sitting on a stool and setting your elbows on the marble counter. Emma leans against the sink and the light from her phone reflects off her lenses. "Put extra cheese on it."

She chuckles quietly and sets the order through an app that she had definitely used too much during her short history in Storybrooke. "It will be half an hour but worth it. I got cake, too." You groan and she grins. "Everyone needs cake."

"You're the reason my corsets don't fit any time I'm sucked back into the Enchanted Forest."

* * *

Later in the winter, you wake to the murmur of Emma's voice, light filtering in your bedroom door. You think, at first, that she's talking to Henry, but realize that her tone is far too harsh as you scrunch your face in confusion. Pushing back the covers, you pad your way to the door and peek through the opening, finding Emma sat at the top of the stairs with her cellphone pressed to one ear.

Her free hand is worrying her forehead, rubbing tired creases out of her skin.

"I'm not coming _over_ , Killian," she hisses, sucking in a hard breath. "I'm with my family tonight, you _know_ that."

There's a faint buzz as the pirate slurs something into the phone, voice raised. Emma holds the phone away from her ear and groans up at the ceiling.

"I'm hanging up now," she says a little loudly by the receiver before clicking the device shut and sniffling, throwing it to the carpet beside her. " _Fuck_ ," she curses softly, dragging both hands down her red face.

You open the door fully and step into the hallway, looking across the way at Emma, whose head snaps up at your entrance. Her mouth falls open and she looks away from you, wiping tears off her face. "I'm sorry, I was trying to be quiet."

"It's fine. Plus, Henry sleeps like a rock." You reach into your room and grab a warm robe, wrapping it around yourself and making your way to the stairs. She sighs but scoots to one side, retrieving her phone as you settle down beside her. She sniffles again, face wet and flushed. "Since when are you and the pirate fighting?"

"Since I decided that I really only casually liked him and wasn't interested in marrying him before sailing off into the sunset with our ten children."

"That's oddly specific."

"The rum makes him creative," she bites out, staring at the carpet and letting her hair curtain over her features. "I'm just _so_ not interested in loving him and he desperately wants me to be his _happy ending_ , like we're True Loves or something equally as bullshit. I've had too much destiny to deal with already, I don't need it complicating my sex life."

"I assume he doesn't feel too happy about that." Emma laughs and shakes her head, pushing some hair behind her ears. "Ten children is excessive," you add, knocking your shoulder against hers. She chuckles again but soon dissolves into tears. You freeze, unsure what to do with a crying Saviour, but force yourself to comfort her.

"Emma," you start, reaching a hand and setting it on her back. "You aren't obligated to love Killian Jones, no more than I am obligated to love Robin."

"But you _do_ , Regina. You do love him, and that's so much easier than this," she replies stubbornly, throwing her hands up, and you frown at the intensity in her green eyes. "Isn't it?"

"No, Emma, it _really_ isn't," you snap.

" _Regina_ ," she attempts but no words come out as you lean forward and kiss her, lips pressing against hers a little too harshly for it to be as romantic as you had hoped for your first kiss with Emma Swan. She's stunned but moves eventually, kissing you back softly but with a fervor. Her cheeks are wet as they rub up against yours, and the hand that was on her back snakes up into her hair, your nails curling against her scalp.

Emma repeats your name against your lips but you hush her, breaking apart briefly before kissing her again, teeth nipping at her bottom lip.

She's warm and soft and every part of you is tingling with magic and excitement. Her hands move to your cheeks and you can feel the callouses on her palms from where the handle of her gun sits. The aura of Emma's magic is smaller than yours but you can still feel it press up against you, smalls sparks and a soft glow lighting up the surrounding air.

After a few moments, Emma pulls away, features pulled into a stunned expression. She takes her hands back and nervously plays with a clump of blonde curls. She's still crying but there's a hint of a smile forming, cheeks pink.

"Goodnight, Emma," you say through the haze of your own content.

* * *

Washing dishes one afternoon, you stare out the window that gazes on the backyard, grass far too green and heavy roses shedding petals into the breeze.

Emma's rolling in the grass with Neal, glasses and shoes discarded on a patio cushion as she lifts the infant above her. He lets out a squeal of delight while his sister blows raspberries and gently waves him through the air. The year old boy smiles, rosy cheeks straight off of Snow White's face beaming.

Henry's in the living room, no doubt meticulously correcting everything his mother and uncle had moved out of place. It's become a ritual, the young teen putting on a ridiculous looking headset and drowning himself in a first person shooter to drown out family antics.

She's practically still wearing her pajamas, thin joggers and tank top now stained by nature. The baby had been there for merely three hours and she was dirtier than ten year old Henry sneaking home from the castle, sand trailing. You had to laugh at the scene, though, as Emma smiles widely and settles Neal on her chest, kissing him and talking softly. Their relationship had been quite rocky at first, but the Charming siblings had formed a bond sealed in laughter these later months.

You tear your eyes away from the window and finish your chore, toweling your hands afterward. You lean against the counter, glass of wine poured and swirling in your palm. Looking back at the yard, Emma's pulled a patio cushion onto the grass and lays on it next to Neal, whose sleeping form is tucked into Emma. Her eyes are closed but one hand drifts over her brother's head in a soothing motion.

The sound of light footsteps breaks you out of the maze of Emma Swan's face, Snow White padding barefoot into your kitchen. She chuckles when she catches sight of her children, coming to stand beside you.

"David's going to be fine, no concussion," she informs you, grabbing for your glass and stealing a sip of your wine. "Blegh, old." You snatch it back, crinkling your nose at her.

You briefly remember Snow flying through your household hours earlier, dumping the baby and his necessities into Emma's lap, all the while fretting about her husband. The idiot had slipped on his own son's vomit and cracked his head against the coffee table, landing himself in an ambulance.

"Good. One often forgets that he used to be a soldier, what with all of his clumsy ways." You side eye the woman and she rolls her eyes, sighing that motherly sigh of hers.

"Oh, David," she says, mostly to herself.

A silence settles as you both watch Emma with her brother, her face pulled into a peaceful smile. Her hair's fallen off her shoulder and pools onto the grass. Even from this far, you can see the meadow of freckles that pepper her collar and arm. She's yet to notice her mother's arrival and you are glad for it, not wanting the small scene to end. Emma's always looked angelic, but moments like this leave you with a sore throat.

You can feel Snow staring at you after a time, a small grin peaking from her lips. Her dimples are far too similar to her daughter's and you curse the heartwarming gene. You narrow your eyes at her and she laughs softly, reaching one hand to the other and slipping the famous jewelled band off her ring finger.

Snow holds it out to you with a bashful look on her face and you scoff, taken aback. "You can have this, you know, for Emma. It's been with me long enough."

"You're far too young to be handing down heirlooms," you bite, unsure how to react to the offering.

"We're both old enough and you know it, Regina," she reminds you, pushing the ring closer until it's directly in front of your face. "C'mon, for me. I'd hate to think of you in the dwarves' jewelry shop, they make the ugliest wedding rings."

"Did one of your brain dead princesses at mommy camp somehow come up with the idea that I was marrying Emma or are you pregnant again and feeling needlessly sappy?"

"Regina," Snow admonishes you firmly. "You're in love with my daughter. She loves you and Henry more than anything. Why not?"

"Snow, I'm really not interested in one of your soul searching chats," you say defensively, body tensing. "Emma and I are just fine the way we are, we don't need to throw a royal wedding in the middle of all this. I'm not mopping up Archie's tears at the altar, Snow."

"I'll let you wear black."

" _No_."

She snickers but grabs your hand before you can fireball her, placing the ring in your palm and curling your fingers around it. "True Love follows this ring, soulmates or not, farmers and queens."

You flick your eyes back to Emma, who's still serenely napping, and worry your gaze over the lines of her nose and mouth. For a brief second you imagine her with a halo of white flowers and a gown more beautiful than the entirety of the Enchanted Forest. There's a swirl of skirts and the flicker of soft music, just the two of you among an endless sea of guests. You've dreamt this before, surely, the image is too familiar and warm.

Emma's lids flicker and she cracks them open, squinting through the low window and into the kitchen. She eyes Snow first but catches you looking, lips curling up into a casual greeting. You smile back before dropping your head to study the green gem in your palm.

A tear leaks into your lashes and slips down one cheek as you return to your love, lips pulling apart as you beam at her.

 _end_.


End file.
